From the cheap seats

Leaping Larry

Formula One time has rolled around again, so there are no prizes for naming the No. 1 topic occupying the minds of sport fans here, i.e. football.

A whole footy season lays glittering and untrammelled before us. In the hearts of supporters, hopes are high, enthusiasm is running wild, interest is peaking, and Frampton Comes Alive. (Kids, ask a grandparent).

The traditional Anzac Day blockbuster, Essendon v Collingwood at the MCG, April 25, 2007. Photo: John Donegan

However, one clear and present danger to this general avalanche of joy is routinely ignored, resulting in jolting bouts of disappointment and jadedness way too early in the season. Thus it is important to issue a warning up front.

As with any major, complex issue, the best mode of explanation is via a prehistoric joke. Say, here's one right now.

Two ladies are attending a major charity event. The younger says to the more venerable one, "I couldn't help admiring that magnificent diamond ring you're wearing." To which her companion replies, "This? Thank you. As a matter of fact the stone is famous – it's known as the Plotnik Diamond."

The young woman says, "You're very lucky. I'd give anything to own a diamond like that."

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But the older one exclaims, "Lucky?! You don't know the half of it. This diamond comes with a terrible curse – the Plotnik Curse!"

Young Woman: "Really? How exotic! But what's the terrible curse?" And the older woman responds in a world-weary voice, "Mr Plotnik." It is clear in our case that the AFL season ahead is the proverbial Plotnik Diamond. But the ominous, oft-unspoken curse that looms over the football consumer is what might be termed the Plotnik Commentator.

Not every footy fan has one of these – some may have happily developed immunity – but many among us do.

The scenario is chillingly familiar. One sits down in eager anticipation of the match ahead. The TV is ready, the volume is right, seating perfect, blizzardly cold drinks – some of which may or may not be beer, but probably are – are in the fridge, and all is right with the world.

Then the coverage starts, and you realise you've drawn your personal Plotnik Commentator for the big game. Enthusiasm drains, bile rises, the beer unaccountably warms in the hand and, in an adjacent cartoon universe, steam shoots sideways out of your ears. You're facing right down the barrel of a long season with this plonker riding shotgun on your ear canal the entire way. Delight turns to dyspepsia.

Years ago, the original Fox Footy channel had a hell of an idea, which, in the way of these things, has been roundly ignored ever since.

If the Plotnik Curse of commentary struck you, you could press one of those coloured buttons on the remote that are present mainly to confuse older people.

Magically, the gibberish would be silenced, leaving you only with the sounds of kicks, bumps, grunts and crowd, via the effects mikes. Since muzzling the commentators is probably against the Geneva Convention, it's clearly past time to bring back the magic cone-of-silence button.